The early risers of the roadside verge are a particular favourite
I have long been drawn to daisies – scattered through meadows, waving out of walls, made into chains of flowers by kids, worn as crowns by country queens. They are among the first up and out in spring, spangling summer roadsides. Lipstick-kissed, clustered in grass; ox-eyed, tall and swaying in front of our beach hut window.
I have a pot or two on the rooftop, though they colonise the others. They grow out of bricks and mortar and cracks in tiles, a miraculous hold on life and moisture where there shouldn’t be any. They are a first flower, the sort that children draw, simple petals, central stem. Easy on the eye and to understand. They are also a source of fights with my wife when she wants to mow summer grass. I fight for their life though I know it’s futile: her neatly trimmed lawn (my nascent wild meadow) will not long be denied.
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